


You Are a Beast and I Am Serving Up Your Supper

by detritius



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Gun Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possible Dubious Consent, Sexual Content, dubcon tag for safety because Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detritius/pseuds/detritius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and it's... intimate. An expansion of the final scene from Su-Zakana. Oneshot. Semi PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are a Beast and I Am Serving Up Your Supper

Hannibal takes the gun out of his hand, and Will's rage is only fog, frayed by wind, pierced by sunlight, his strength all sound and fury, quick sounds quickly ended. And then Hannibal's cradling his face, and it's... intimate. He knows Hannibal has touched him before, remembers it in shreds and fragments, but that was clinical and less than meaningless. He was a thing to Hannibal, just a tool to be used and thrown away, and he scrabbles for the memory of that hand forcing his jaw open, holding him down. But those moments were never more than half-real to him, and the hand against his cheek now is so gentle, warm and solid in a world threatening to unravel. Hannibal's murmuring to him, the ghost of his breath against Will's cheek, his words coming back as distorted echoes. And... smiling. Hannibal smiling, not the predatory little smile Will's seen on him before, but an expression of hope, longing, and almost infinite sadness. And seeing that on his face breaks the fraying rope of his certainty. The evidence doesn't line up. He knows what Hannibal is, he knows, but could the monster he's been hunting look at him like that?

  
He's rudderless and empty and weak behind the knees. The world tilts and slides and starts to fall away.

  
Hannibal's lips are soft and confiding on his, his breath warm and spiced like mulled wine. It's little more than that at first, just Hannibal breathing into him. Will has more than enough time to pull away, but he doesn't. It's too much, to be touched like this, to be wanted... Months where the closest he came to human contact was the accidental brush of an orderly's fingertips as he was locked into restraints, and now Hannibal's fingers tracing slow circles at the nape of his neck, his own hands free but useless down at his sides. The lightest of kisses pressed to his lower lip, then his upper. And Will closes his eyes and lets it happen. Deep, slow breaths through his nose. Jaw clenched tight to keep his gorge down. To keep himself from kissing back.

  
His heart is very loud in the dark behind his eyes. Will can feel the rushing of his blood, his lips flushed and starting to swell with it, alive to even the slightest sensation. Hannibal's hot tongue skims against him and every nerve in his body thrums like piano wire. He starts to shiver all over and can't make himself stop. His skin warms everywhere Hannibal touches him, leaving the rest of his neglected flesh so cold, goosebumps racing over his arms and back and thighs. He wants to curl in on himself, holding his own warmth in. He wants to go away inside, sink into the calm river of his thoughts and feel nothing. _Teach us to care and not to care, teach us to be still._ An unborn, strangled sound, a sob, twists in his throat as he remembers the next lines: _pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Now and at the hour of our death._ He whimpers a little and Hannibal pulls back, kissing only the corner of his mouth now, still murmuring to him, soft lulling sounds. Soft and sweet. And Will feels something like the fever taking hold of him.

There's a sound of incredulity or disgust from behind them, and then a deafening blast that nearly knocks him backward. Will's vision goes white around the edges and he feels like he might fall, but Hannibal doesn't even flinch, only shushes Will and holds him steady and keeps on kissing him, tiny fluttering kisses across his lips and jaw. There's a dizzying, rushing roar in his head, hollow silence pressing in on him. Dazed, he tries to look around, and the stroking hand at the back of his neck fists up in his hair. "No," Hannibal says, as if from under water, "Look at me, Will. Nowhere else." He moves in even closer as he says it, so close that his face melts into abstraction. Single features stand out sharply, tension lines around his mouth, the curve of a sunken cheek, one searching eye. _See too much..._ Will blinks and tries to turn away. Hannibal tightens his grip, his breath seething against Will's mouth. "No," he says again. His hand in Will's hair keeps him still. The other is a warning at the small of Will's back. Dully, through the fabric of his overcoat, he can feel warm metal. The stench of cordite, hot and acrid, rises to smother the scents of hay and old blood and Hannibal's elegant fougère. Will can't do much more than register the sensations. His ears are still ringing from the shot, and time is jagged, slowing and speeding up like badly-spooled film. He's stumbling through a shifting haze, Hannibal guiding him, pulling him away. Distantly: "If you're to see this with Jack Crawford, it should be for the first time." 

Outside, Will falls boneless against the Bentley, pulling in gasps of clean, frozen air. The cold is like a slap, and he's disoriented, as if he was sleepwalking again. There's a certain unreality to what happened in the barn... but no, he's not that kind of crazy. Not anymore. Struggling to his feet, he turns on Hannibal. "What did you do?"

  
Hannibal backs him up against the car, trapping him there, and leans in, his lips brushing Will's earlobe, his neck. "He came at us," he murmurs, unbuttoning Will's overcoat, slipping his hands inside. "I had no choice."

  
Will clutches at the smooth, icy metal behind and beneath him, desperate for something to hold onto. But there's nothing, only the snow and the night silence and Hannibal's hands –- surgeon's hands, killer's hands –- cold and searching through the fabric of his shirt. He's alone and unmoored, defenseless, and there's something warm and insidious uncoiling in him, responding to Hannibal's touch. He grits his teeth and tries not to cry out, mindless animal hunger warring with his hatred, his disgust. His nails bite into his palms, and he focuses on that, trying to force down a sigh, a moan, a cringe, a sneer. And he remembers with sudden clarity the short, bisected sound before the world went white.

  
 "You knew his profile. You... you knew..." The words are out of his mouth as soon as he's thought them. From far away, he catches echoes of a lecture he gave in what feels like another lifetime:  _a significant percentage of men who target women are chauvinists... small-minded... full of rage at a world they can't control... Look for a history of assaults... easily provoked... may be incited to violence by even the suggestion of homosexuality..._ It's textbook, profiling 101 at Quantico. Hannibal must have known. Blinking, Will tries to struggle out of his grip, grappling for sense and clarity. "That -- that's why you did this. To provoke him."

  
Hannibal doesn't answer, just takes him by the shoulders and presses him back against the car, restraining him, but gently. Will half-remembers the seizure he had in Hannibal's dining room, Hannibal holding his head, keeping him still. With the memory comes a rush of vertigo, and he starts to shake and sweat. _It's sometime after ten, I'm in Belvedere, Ohio, and my name is Will Graham._

  
"Look at me, Will." He realizes his eyes are squeezed shut, and when he blinks in surprise, Hannibal is there in soft focus. Hannibal cradling his face again, peering into his eyes. He holds his gaze as he says, "I had to." His lips on Will's skin again, on his cheek, the shell of his ear, his hands wandering lower. "Your mask slipped, and he saw you. He could have gone to the FBI." Will hears the words but they barely make sense. Hannibal is pulling his shirt untucked from his pants and stroking the tight, tense muscles of his lower abdomen. The rasp of knuckles against his inseam, and Will gasps, the icy air raw and burning down his throat, and it's almost enough to bring tears to his eyes. Hannibal is implacable, sliding one of his legs between Will's now, mouthing at a delicate spot under his jaw. A groan wells up deep inside him, and Will betrays himself by letting it out, his body battered by sensation, shuddering and writhing at the gentle, merciless pressure of Hannibal's thigh. A gust of heated breath, and Hannibal's speaking against his skin. "But if that was my only reason, I would have stopped when the bullet entered his brain." He's fumbling with buttons, exposing Will's throat and chest to the stinging night air. Will gasps and Hannibal's at his mouth, stealing his breath. The kiss is quick and brutal, and then Hannibal's whispering to him again. "I did this because I wanted to. I have for months, but until now, I didn't think you would let me." Will's coat and shirt wrenched open, leaving him bare to the waist. Hannibal's covetous hands, his eyes burning as he says, "I have waited so long for you, Will." And Will moans, his thighs trembling. It's too much. Hannibal cups his face and smiles at him, that soft-edged, disarming smile. "Get in the car. The back seat. I don't want you getting frostbite."

Will's legs are shaking so badly he can barely keep himself up. He obeys, just wanting to sit before his knees give out, and once inside, he all but collapses. Hannibal slides in after him and closes the door and the automatic light fades down, leaving them in stifling darkness. Soft sounds of rustling fabric, a warm current in the cool, stagnant air, and Hannibal's sliding over him like a constrictor snake. Will swallows and tries to find his voice over the frenzied beating of his heart. He's more breathless than defiant when he asks, "What makes you think I'll let you now?" He doesn't know if he even expects an answer. His shirt is already open, and Hannibal's easing it off his shoulders, down his arms. Hannibal's hands and tongue and teeth against his naked skin. Will doesn't do anything to stop him. He should have said something before, if he was going to, and anyway, he can use this. It's all just an act, he tells himself, to lull Hannibal, to beguile him, a siren song to call him up onto the rocks. He can... he can pretend to want this. Taking jagged little breaths, he turns all his tremulous doubt inward and sets himself against his own body, his rigid muscles and the thorny sickness crawling up his throat, the fading urge to scream. _Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to be still. Be still. Be still._ Like a pitcher plant, he opens himself up.

  
Hannibal hums in pleasure as Will's body relaxes, falling slumped against the door. "That's good, Will," he says, and Will feels as much as hears it, Hannibal's hot breath at his navel and lower, the vibration from his throat. He kisses Will's hipbone as those inexorable hands encourage his legs to part. "You begin to understand the truth of your nature. The urge to kill is one of man's most primal instincts. As is this." Hannibal undoing his pants now. A weak little sigh instead of a gasp. His jeans and boxers are tangled up around his knees and it's hard for him to move. "You see yourself more clearly now. No cause to be ashamed of this. No need to deny yourself."

  
Hannibal's hand against his most intimate skin, fingers wrapping him. Will keens and his hips push up into Hannibal's touch, and even blind in the dark, he can see that self-satisfied, predatory little smile. Shame and rage and hate flare up and are blown away like smoke as that hand starts to move, and he's undone, mewling, shuddering and thrusting into Hannibal's grip. Hannibal pushes him down, controlling his movements, always in control. His hands don't shake at all, the one heavy on Will's shoulder, or the other, stroking, teasing, calculated and torturous.

  
"You feel this." His thumb circles the head, a slow, lingering touch, and then the barest graze of a fingernail, making Will gasp. "You cannot run away from it. We are here together."

There's something not right about that, Hannibal's hardly let Will touch him, and he's half on his back with his pants pushed down while Hannibal kneels over him, still in his suit, immaculate as ever, but before Will can put any of that into words, Hannibal starts frigging him in earnest, fast, light strokes intermixed with harder, rougher ones. Will groans and his eyes roll up, his body bowing back, giving over, heat welling up from the depths of him. Sounds spill from his lips, jumbled and meaningless. Hannibal speeds up further, seeking out every spot that makes Will moan and rock against him, his hand heating with the friction. He lowers himself so he's almost lying on his stomach, and Will can feel his breath. Just that has him shivering and loose-limbed with need, and then bright swipe of Hannibal's tongue on his underside, his tip engulfed in Hannibal's hot mouth. He cries out, his eyelids fluttering, his vision starting to go white. His thighs are trembling, his hips bucking uncontrollably, sliding him between Hannibal's lips, shallowly fucking his mouth. Hannibal takes Will in hand and slides down, hot, wet, yes, fully engulfing him between his mouth and his fist. Will moans and sighs, grateful, incandescent, lighter than air. And Hannibal _squeezes_ , forcing something like a squeak out of him, and then he's pulling off, straitening, adjusting his collar with his free hand. His grip around Will's base is only just not painful. "Don't come. Not yet."

  
Will groans, confused, bereft, and lifts his hips searchingly. Nothing but cold air against him. He feels Hannibal's fingertips against his palm, and then he's being pulled, guided down to his own cock, his fingers fitted around it. He's so much hotter and harder than he would have imagined, and he can't stop himself from crying out, gasping and moaning, the sounds breaking from him like sobs. But Hannibal is pitiless. "Hold on. Like that." He positions Will's hand to replace his, not letting up until Will tightens his fingers as much as he wants. "Don't let go until I tell you. I want you to last."

  
_No, no, I can't  --_ The words crash against his lips and die, spilling out in a helpless whimper as he thrusts up into his own fist. His cock is throbbing, leaking, pressure building in him like a thunderhead.

  
"Shh, shh shhh. It won't be much longer." Sounds in the dark, fumbling, the snick of a zipper. He smells latex, and then something else, unfamiliar and chemical. A squelch and then wet furtive sounds that seem to go on forever, and he's trembling, aching, his legs spread so far apart, his cock so full in his grip. At the first cold touch against the cleft of his ass, he whimpers and his eyes squeeze shut. The slicked tip of Hannibal's finger breaches him, and he goes so tense his abdominals spasm and almost cramp. He expects the finger to push in deeper and tries to brace himself, but a perfunctory swirl and it's gone, and then Hannibal has him by the ankles, wrapping Will's legs over his hips and sliding in close. His voice is low and almost strained. "I'm not going to prepare you any further. It won't be very deep like this and I want you to feel it in the coming days so you'll know you didn't dream it. There will be pain, but you will get yourself through it. Do you understand?"

A far-off, dwindling part of him wants to fight this, but he's so desperately hard and his limbs are so heavy. Something slick and insistent presses against him, and he thinks of the feeling of warmth just before you freeze to death. He nods jerkily, and then, realizing, "Yes. Yes, I understand."

  
Hannibal's breath against his cheek. "Be brave, Will. It will hurt more if you're afraid."

  
Pain, low and dull and raw. A burning like the graze of a bullet, and then he's stretched, invaded, desecrated, gasping and crying out, his eyes tearing, his body starting to convulse, and then -- nothing. Nothing. Falling away from himself, sinking into still water --

  
"Don't go inside, Will." Hannibal's voice, panted and breaking, reaches out for him. "You'll want to retreat, to make yourself separate from the pain, but I want you to master it." A choked little sound is all the reply he can manage. He's dimly aware of Hannibal's arms around him, Hannibal stroking his hair. "It's all right. Without pain, we would feel nothing. Stay with me."

  
The world comes back to him in fragments. His head lolling, cushioned by Hannibal's shoulder. Damp fabric under his cheek, the scent of Hannibal's cologne drowned in musk and sweat. Hannibal holding him up.

  
He feels himself lifted and then let to settle back down, his body reshaping itself around the intrusion in him. It doesn't hurt so much now. There's still an ache, but more than that, a strangeness, a fullness he can't bear to really think about, and the shadow of need, building again. His hand had gone slack around his cock, the pain stifling his urgency too much for it to matter, but now, it twitches in his fist as Hannibal rocks into him. He's shamed to realize it. Every time Hannibal spears him, pierces him, he's brushing a spot inside that makes Will shiver and arch and strain against his hand. He moans with the next thrust and renews his grip, and holding on gives him somewhere to focus. He has to. He can't come from this. 

  
Hannibal takes him now in long, rolling strokes, smooth and unhurried. His fingers are restless in Will's sweat-damp hair and his mouth is at Will's shoulder and neck, laying kisses there, whispering and murmuring, "My sweet Will, _mon beau garçon, mano mylimasis_ ," lapsing into words Will can't understand. His mind won't fix on them. All his senses are too full of Hannibal, his heat, the smell of him, the cadence of his breath, the rhythm of his hips. Will moans, brimming, helpless, Hannibal's short nails grazing his scalp, fine-spun wool just rasping against his chest, hot mouth at his throat, the driving force below. Each thrust seems to pull Hannibal deeper inside him until he's unfailingly hitting that tender spot, filling him with quivering, liquid need. His neglected cock aches and throbs in his hand. 

  
There's an expanding heat at his center, pressing out against his skin, tight and swollen and ripe, so close to bursting. Hannibal holds him over that edge and he's swaying with vertigo, his heart galloping, his body burning, his breathing gasped and ragged. "Please," he whispers, "please, please, please..."  
"Not yet. Hold your head up." He does as he's told, gripping Hannibal's shoulder hard for leverage, and they're face to face. He can see the shine of Hannibal's eyes in the dark. Hannibal kisses him, jerking him down roughly at the same time, a hard, cruel spike of pleasure, again, again, and then the hand at his waist holds Will suspended. "I won't move for you anymore. I want you to ride me." The words take a moment to penetrate the haze in his head, and then he's obeying without thought, without question, lowering himself as far as he can, raising up, forcing himself down again, fucking himself on Hannibal's cock. "Good boy. That's my good boy. I want you to scream for me. Will you do that?"

  
He's shaking all over with the effort, his pace turning frantic, each brutal thrust unmaking him, and it's too easy. The scream he's been holding down tears out of him, and it hurts, it hurts even to breathe, and his face is wet, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to stop. His voice cracks and wavers every time Hannibal stabs into him, every time he splits himself open, but the scream goes on and on, tapering to a sobbing, keening wail.

  
"Now, Will," Hannibal says. "Come for me now."

  
He loosens his fist and shoves himself down one last time, and he is light and air and color, a river overflowing its banks, a glass pane breaking. The shell of him crumbles, and he is ash scatted by the wind. 

  
Floating again, somewhere distant from himself, he hears Hannibal finish with a grunt, the soft, unpleasant sounds of the aftermath. The thing that is Will Graham is slumped, boneless and senseless. That spent and battered body exhales, and his spirit issues from the mouth like steam, unbound now, escaping that tight and airless place, drifting up to the silent stars.

  
"Will?"

  
He opens his eyes on the darkness. He's curled up naked in the back of a car, and the voice calling out for him is Hannibal's.

  
"How are you feeling?"

  
He blinks and doesn't know how to answer. His voice seems to come from somewhere else. "Empty."

**Author's Note:**

> Some phrases are taken either from the show or from Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris. Since the show is full of callbacks and recontextualized lines from the books, I added a few to give my work a certain canonical flavor. I claim no credit for them.  
> Title is taken from "Empty Threats of Little Lord" by Sunset Rubdown.  
> "Teach us to care and not to care, teach us to be still" is a misquotation of TS Elliot's Ash Wednesday used in Silence of the Lambs.  
> As far as I could tell on rewatch, there's no indication of where the bulk of Su-Zakana takes place, so for the purposes of this story, I decided on Belvedere, Ohio as another Silence of the Lambs reference.


End file.
